I just need to rest, that’s all, to rest and sleep some, and maybe die a little.

The sea is never weary. I must be as tireless.

A cold wind was blowing from the north, and it made the trees rustle like living things.

I prefer my history dead. Dead history is writ in ink, the living sort in blood.

The morning air was dark with the smoke of burning gods.

That man said he’d take your head too.” “Well, as to that,” Yoren said, “if he can get it off my shoulders, he’s welcome to it.

For herself, she wanted sleet and ice, howling winds, thunder to shake the very stones of the Red Keep. She wanted a storm to match her rage.